Damaged Detective
by Addict to Fanfics
Summary: For all the grace the lanky, young detective displayed at crime scenes he could be terribly clumsy without an audience to impress.


_Merry Christmas!_

_This is set about a year and a half or two years after Sherlock starts helping Lestrade, aka being set pre-series. It's totally not what I had in mind when I sat down to write because I had something with John in mind not Lestrade but this worked out well. I may still get around to the original idea eventually but for now you get this._

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Watching Sherlock examine a crime scene was elegance in motion. He flowed from place to place and circled items of interest. He would contort himself in all manner of directions to view things thoroughly and never loose his balance. For all the grace that he displayed at crime scenes though, the lanky young detective could however be terribly clumsy when without an audience to impress.

,.,.,

Sherlock sat awkwardly on the edge of one of the hospital's waiting room chairs swiping at the blood that refused to stop trickling from a cut above his temple. Head wounds always made him look like a victim of attempted murder by the time they stopped bleeding. Perhaps he shouldn't have barged into Lestrade's home with blood smeared down the side of his face; the man was forever fussing over little matters concerning his health and this situation was no different it seemed. The developing facial bruises and clearly hurt wrist probably hadn't helped his case.

"Really, Lestrade, it's hardly anything more than a scrape. You should be aware as a member of the _Yard's_ _finest_ that head wounds bleed, excessively. If I'd known you'd make such a fuss over the mess I would have waited the half hour for the clotting or simply texted you the necessary details." Sherlock sighed heavily as if someone caring that he did indeed have blood leaking from his head was an utter inconvenience to him.

Lestrade sighed heavily mocking the sound the younger man had emitted earlier causing Sherlock to look at him questioningly. "Oh, yes, so I'm just supposed to let you bleed all over the place when you show up on my doorstep with blood pouring down your face and bruising that makes it look like you went a round with a professional boxer. For all that you say I don't observe don't think I missed you babying your ribs getting in and out of the car. You're getting those checked as well."

Sherlock scowled at the man beside him. "Barely a trickle. Ribs are fine. Minor bruising. Already wrapped them. Nothing to check." He went back to prodding the still bleeding cut in a blatant dismissal of the man next to him.

"You're still getting them checked while we're here. Want to tell me what happened this time while we wait?" The man knew Sherlock's idea of minor as far as wounds went was slightly skewed. It would be easier to judge the true extent of them if the younger man told him how he'd incurred them this time.

Usually this invitation was all that was needed for the detective to either launch into the story in excessive detail or give a curt response of whatever experiment he'd injured himself with this time in the disaster zone that was his current flat. From the looks of things this was sure to be the former but as he waited patiently no adventurous story came pouring out. He looked over to the younger man and noted that for once the man actually looked his young age with the sheepish grin he wore. He hadn't even been sure the detective would allow himself to feel sheepish with the way he approached emotions.

"Sherlock?" The younger man's response was mumbled and unintelligible. Now he was slightly worried.

"Sherlock, you know if there's something wrong…" He trailed off at the scathing look he received.

"I tripped." The response was short, uninformative and did nothing to quell the worry that was growing in Lestrade's mind.

"Last time I checked tripping doesn't damage your ribs, wrist and head unless it's down a flight of stairs. Young people usually need help to fall down a flight of them." He really hoped that wasn't the case here.

The scathing glare returned but melted back into the sheepish grin the consulting detective had worn earlier. "I really did trip. " Was the beginning of the explanation and the grin made Lestrade relax and sit back in anticipation of the most likely humourous tale.

"I was in my new flat. Just finished the pile of cases you handed me. Easy. Dull. Except for the last. I was on my way out to pass the others off to you before following a lead. Caught my shoe on a bloody loose board of all things. Tripped. Obviously. Hit the open door. That was the head wound. Caught myself before I fell all the way. Backed up to find a cloth for it. I was off balance. Caught my leg on a pile of books I recently acquired. Toppled sideways. Hit my wrist on the back of the chair I tried to grab. The coffee table was responsible for my ribs. The books on it for the facial bruising. One of its legs is broken as a result. Happy now?" The sentences poured out in the clipped manner of one who had no wish to elaborate but knew they were required to do so. The last bit though was asked in a dull monotone as if to somehow detract from the amusement the other would no doubt feel at learning he looked like the he'd lost a good fight after 30 seconds of clumsiness in his own flat.

Lestrade couldn't help the grin at the younger man's inelegance when normally he moved so smoothly but kept himself from laughing at Sherlock's discomfort. Before he could make any comments on the subject though a nurse called for them.

"Sherlock Holmes?" The name was said somewhat incredulously as if doubting whether the name was real or if someone was trying to pull one over on her. Obviously this nurse was new. The others on staff at the clinic had long since gotten used to the name during the previous year and a half and simply waved them over when it was there turn.

Sherlock grinned and bounced up from his seat completely mindless of the head injury that was the original reason for the visit. Despite his hatred of having people fuss over him this was the part he absolutely loved. It was certainly his excuse for showing up at Lestrade's home still bleeding knowing full well that the man would drag him out to get him checked.

The first time he had done so he had been completely confused about the man's worry for him. As he actually had a concussion that time he had agreed grudgingly to be checked over simply because the Inspector had refused to listen to his conclusions until he was assured of the younger man's health. They had ended up at this very clinic. The explanation for his injury at the time was marginally similar to the current one. He had indeed hit a door. That time he'd been helped into it though by an offended party.

He'd been asked as a matter of course how he'd been injured and responded with the vague explanation that he'd merely fell into a doorknob. Despite doctor patient confidentiality when they'd left the exam room after signing the appropriate papers it seemed every nurse had been made aware the circumstances of his injury. That he was there with a man several years his senior and obviously not a relative had stirred questions. The baseless conclusion being the older man had been responsible for the injury. Without an admission of abuse though they could only glare silently. Normally one to hate mistaken conclusions Sherlock had instead been amused at Lestrade's discomfort. No amount of polite explanations on the officer's part would persuade the staff otherwise though they could take no actions without Sherlock's word of foul play.

Since then Sherlock had found a great deal of pleasure in the Inspector's discomfort on repeated visits. The man could only stand patiently and bear the cold and sharp glares if he wished to ensure the younger man's injuries were treated. It was an unspoken compromise of sorts for them. Sherlock didn't see the point in having his injuries looked over when he was certain he could care for them himself. Lestrade wasn't sure Sherlock would bother to do so even if he believed the man was more than capable. So the clinic trips became a regular occurrence. Sherlock would deal with being fussed over and bandaged up by well-meaning professionals and Lestrade would deal with the entire staff thinking he'd been the reason the bandages were needed in the first place.

Standing up to follow Sherlock who was already headed to the designated exam room Lestrade braced himself for the latest bout of disapproving looks and wasn't disappointed. The nurse who had called out looked confused at the cold reception and he didn't doubt that by the time they were ready to leave the receptionist would have filled her in on their assumptions about the situation. It was a pity she'd be just another person glaring when they returned. He was really getting tired of the accusing looks he received for bringing in the damaged detective.

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_Good? Bit not good? Please review and tell me. I do so love to hear from people! Was there some aspect you particularly liked? Or did I mess something up somewhere in the story? If there are any errors I might have missed please tell me and I'll take care of it._

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_Ok, so,** I'll admit to having the next chapter of 'The Least' already written.** I checked the page date and it's been there since mid-August (written, not typed is why I don't consider it done). I was planning to hold onto "Last Laugh" until season three but in light of that miniepisode (which I only just got a chance to view because I was out all yesterday and today...), and that S3 will be out soon anyway, it'll be fitting if I type and post it sooner rather than later. To those of you who don't remember previous AN I've left,** Last Laugh is Anderson's piece**. I've got my old notebook (poor thing is falling to pieces...) so I'll type it up after posting this. Hopefully I won't be distracted and you'll get it tonight. It's short so it shouldn't take me long._


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